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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26681443">search, and dream, and wait</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardinalrachelieu/pseuds/cardinalrachelieu'>cardinalrachelieu</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(dare i say da4 compliant???), 5+1, Angst, F/M, Trespasser compliant, Wolf!solas, and also the 'solas leaves lavellan' theme that's present throughout DAI, and the final short story (mtdwty) in tevinter nights, and the new da4 dev trailer inspired me to finish it, anyway i've been working on this thing since the beginning of july, fadewalking, have an angsty 5+1 fic based on that one trespasser end-credits card, lyrium-corrupted!solas, so here., tevinter nights compliant, tw for mild substance abuse (sort of??)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 03:09:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,554</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26681443</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardinalrachelieu/pseuds/cardinalrachelieu</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Ellana whips around, eyes wide as she frantically searches the treeline— desperate, delirious. “Solas?” she mouths, lungs empty, heart pounding. A figure shifts far in the distance, obscured by the shade and the underbrush. </p><p>Two pointed ears. A long, boxy snout. Fur the color of a nightmare. </p><p>“Sol—” Ellana blinks, and the wolf is gone, a grey curl of smoke marking the place where it stood, where <em>he</em> stood. And it <em>was</em> him— she’s sure of it.</p><p>---</p><p>or, <em>the five times solas abandons ellana, and the one time he doesn't<em></em></em></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Female Lavellan/Solas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>search, and dream, and wait</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>- 1 -</strong>
</p><p>The Fade is endless. </p><p>It carries the echoes of ages past, ghosts given a second life, worlds lost to time and turmoil. There’s an impermanence to it all, a fragility. Solas once said the Fade was a reflection of the dreamer, so what does it say about her that everything keeps changing, keeps shifting? One moment, she is reclining in a meadow, the next she is in Kirkwall during the uprising, blood and death and the tang of lyrium poisoning the air. No matter where she travels, though, the Black City is always a jagged wound on the horizon.</p><p>Before the Anchor, she’d never tried Fadewalking. Now, she can hardly avoid it. For a time, she assumed the Anchor was to blame for dragging her into this world-between-worlds, but her mark is long gone and yet here she is. If anything, the Anchor lent her a measure of control; without it, she’s tossed around like a leaf on the breeze.</p><p>Quietly, pathetically, Ellana keeps hoping Solas will find her— save her from this chaos as he’s done so many times before. (He always was gifted at smoothing the frenzied edges of her unconscious mind.) </p><p>But the Dread Wolf has not shared her dreams since before Corypheus fell. Why should that change now?</p><p>Ellana blinks, and she is on her balcony at Skyhold, the sweet pink of sunset caressing snow-capped mountains. Another blink, and she is in the sandy wastes in western Orlais, standing near a young quillback that’s curled into its mother’s side. Another blink, and she is at Haven, before an avalanche buried the entire valley. Over and over she is flung around the world, backwards and forwards in time, in place, in feeling— until finally, she is standing in a forest. </p><p>Thick, elegant branches stretch toward an azure sky, and there’s nothing but green and green and green in all directions. Slowly, Ellana rotates in a circle, taking in her surroundings as she anxiously waits to be yanked somewhere less pleasant. Minutes pass—or perhaps hours, it’s hard to tell here—yet she remains.</p><p>This place feels different than others she’s visited. More mature. More peaceful. More… protected.</p><p><em> This is a sanctuary, </em> she thinks, unbidden, but it tastes like the truth.</p><p>Well, while she’s here, she might as well explore. She rubs her severed limb, massaging a phantom pain that’s more memory than material. It’s been months, but she can’t go longer than five minutes without trying to use a hand she no longer has, without thinking of the man who removed it. Perhaps she should be grateful that it doesn’t hurt; instead, she’s angry. It <em> should </em> hurt. If it hurt, maybe she could hate him. If it hurt, maybe she could summon the will to truly oppose him— track him down and kill him for the sake of Thedas.</p><p>But it doesn’t hurt.</p><p>And she doesn’t hate him.</p><p>And she can’t find the strength to do what must be done, even now, even though she knows the terrible price of inaction.</p><p>Leaves rustle around her, caught in a soundless breeze, and the air swells with the weight of magic, pure and old and crisp. It almost reminds her of—</p><p>Ellana whips around, eyes wide as she frantically searches the treeline— desperate, delirious. “Solas?” she mouths, lungs empty, heart pounding. A figure shifts far in the distance, obscured by the shade and the underbrush. </p><p>Two pointed ears. A long, boxy snout. Fur the color of a nightmare. </p><p>“Sol—” Ellana blinks, and the wolf is gone, a grey curl of smoke marking the place where it stood, where <em> he </em> stood. And it <em> was </em> him— she’s sure of it.</p><p>Slowly, the Fade returns to normal, that sweet-rich energy dissipating further and further until its imprint is lost entirely. </p><p>And then she is alone, again. </p><p>Abandoned, again.</p><p>Ellana sinks to her knees, folds in on herself, and pinches her eyes shut to dam the tears. As she takes a shuddering breath, a sob hitches in her throat. “Wake up,” she whispers.</p><p> </p><p>**</p><p><em> The next day, salt still on her cheeks, Ellana begins to gather ingredients. She </em> will <em> get through to him. One way or another. </em></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong>- 2- </strong>
</p><p>It’s been a week, and Ellana still hasn’t told Cassandra or Leliana about the dream. They’d seek to exploit her lingering connection with Solas somehow—leverage it to pinpoint his location, or disrupt his plans, or maybe even harm him directly. (Not that she could, even if she wanted to, but they would undoubtedly ask her to try.) And she should <em> want </em> to do those things. She should be willing to take whatever advantage they can get. She knows she should. But she simply… can’t.</p><p>In the physical world, she will oppose him—for Thedas, she will be ruthless, no matter the personal cost—but she refuses to sacrifice that piece of herself in dreams as well. Leliana and Cassandra wouldn’t hesitate were they in her position. They would exhaust every lead, take every risk, wield every scrap of power they could find. Then again, they have always been more faithful to the cause than she.</p><p>Andraste—if she even exists—should’ve chosen a better herald.</p><p>Her mistake.</p><p>Ellana drops onto her bed, groggy from the modified lyrium tonic she drank a short while ago. It tasted like sweat-drenched dirt, but it came with the promise of controlled Fadewalking, so she’s willing to deal with the unpleasantness. Anything to return to that grove. Perhaps it’s a fruitless endeavor, but if she could just <em> speak </em> to him… </p><p>With a sigh, she toes off her boots and worms her way beneath the winter-thick quilt, movements woefully sluggish. </p><p>The apothecary warned her the potion would act quickly; she just hadn’t anticipated it would be <em> this </em> quickly. (The apothecary had also warned her that she might never wake up, but the threat of death loses its teeth when it becomes a <em> when </em> rather than an <em> if.</em>)</p><p><em> Focus, </em> she thinks, gaze blurring, blackening. <em> Focus… on… on…  </em></p><p>As the drugs pull her under, the Veil parts, and then: nothing.</p><p>.</p><p>. .</p><p>. . .</p><p>. .</p><p>.</p><p>Ellana squints. Blinks away the blinding glare of a late afternoon sun. She wouldn’t know she was in the Fade but for the Black City in the distance, but for the prickling sensation all over her skin, like being cold without the chill. The landscape is breathtaking—a graceful sweep of ashen stone against lavender skies—but it is not where she needs to be.</p><p>On an exhale, she lets her eyes drift shut, and she pictures a sea of emerald trees. Thinks of the man she once called her lover.</p><p>One breath, and she has not moved.</p><p>Two breaths, and the world melts beneath her toes.</p><p>Three breaths, and thousands of leaves are rustling on the breeze.</p><p>When Ellana opens her eyes, a forest looms before her, dense and alluring— and at her feet, a path. Onward, then.</p><p>She wends her way deeper and deeper into the woods, past gemstone flowers and a glittering stream, past spirits reveling in halls of memory, until she’s standing in a small clearing, golden light falling through the canopy in fat, luminous beams. It strikes her, then— where she truly is, the significance of this place.</p><p>
  <em> “Fen’Harel lures the wicked as a huntsman lures beasts. Tread carefully in the Dread Wolf’s most treasured domain, lest you draw his clever gaze.” </em>
</p><p>Keeper Deshanna’s words rattle in Ellana’s mind— the traditional warning given to young Dalish before they set off to prove themselves worthy of vallaslin. The entire ceremony is a relic from the times of Elvhenan, when Fen’Harel walked among the People— before the Veil, before the sundering. It was a joke amongst her clansmen to repeat a bastardized version of the phrase as they sat huddled around low-burning campfires. Long nights and scarce prey made for blasphemy.</p><p>A twig snaps somewhere to Ellana’s right, and she jumps.</p><p>Magic settles around her like a mist, potent and vivid, albeit strangely, mildly sour. Solas must be nearby. Calmly—as calm as she can manage under the circumstances—Ellana searches the tree line, and there, amongst the labyrinth of trunks: a pair of eyes, keen and mournful. She’d know their pale-blue misery anywhere.</p><p>“Solas,” she says softly, a declaration instead of a question.</p><p>He stares back, motionless.</p><p>It’s something, at least.</p><p>“I know I shouldn’t be here, I just…” As much as she wants to believe there’s a good reason, there’s not. She’s here because she missed him. Because she still hasn’t figured out how to let him go. Of course, the selfish, lovesick part of her hopes her presence will be the thing that <em> finally </em> makes him give up this misguided crusade. He won’t, though. She knows he won’t. His sense of duty is stronger than most people’s will to live. “It doesn’t have to be this way,” she says, but it’s like pleading with the sun not to rise.</p><p>Solas hangs his head, lays his tufted ears flat against his skull.</p><p>“Come back to me,” she whispers, and Solas tenses.</p><p>He gets the same look in his eyes as that day in Crestwood, the moment before he ended things between them. Then the edges of his night-black coat blur, and he’s gone.</p><p>It’s a familiar pain, but it’s nothing she can’t handle. </p><p><em> Fine, </em> she thinks. <em> I can be stubborn, too. </em></p><p> </p><p>**</p><p>
  <em> It is not easy, loving a god. Enduring, cruel creatures they are, distant and arrogant… and yet, if she could go back to the beginning, even knowing what she knows now, she would choose the same path. She would choose him.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She will always choose him. </em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong>- 3 -</strong>
</p><p>The Fadewalking draught, it turns out, comes with some unfortunate side effects, including a pounding, day-long headache that makes alcohol-based hangovers seem like a trip to one of Vivienne’s spas.</p><p>“Maybe I should fetch the surgeon…” Harding says, each word clanging violently in the dim room.</p><p>Ellana groans, and that’s a mistake because the vibrations make it feel as though a grenade just went off inside her head. She goes silent and buries her head deeper into her pillow. “I’ll be fine.” Her voice is muffled beyond comprehension, but Harding does her the favor of not requesting clarification.</p><p>It’s mid-afternoon before Ellana rallies the strength to pull herself out of bed, dinner time before she does anything even moderately productive. </p><p><em> Never again, </em> she thinks, fighting her gag reflex as she muscles down a bowl of watery soup. She’ll find another way to reach Solas.</p><p>A week passes. Two. Suddenly, a month’s gone by. Ellana still occasionally visits the Fade in her dreams, but it’s always unpredictable, disorienting, chaotic— like the Veil is punishing her for crossing into a place she doesn’t belong. Some nights, when her journeys are particularly harsh, she’s wrenched into that familiar grove, and each time, Solas’s magic is swirling thick on the air. </p><p>He never stays, though.</p><p>…Until one day, unexpectedly, he does.</p><p>At least, she <em> thinks </em> he does. It wouldn’t be the first instance of her mind creating a false reality, or a spirit showing her what she <em> wanted </em> to see. But this time, his power lingers; this time, she can <em> feel </em> him watching her.</p><p>“The Fade changes when you’re near,” she says, unwilling to risk a glance at the shadow prowling closer. Perhaps if she doesn’t look, he won’t run. “Everything gets brighter… sharper. Did you know that?”</p><p>To her surprise, he doesn’t leave.</p><p>Ellana folds her legs beneath her and relaxes against the plush moss. “I suppose you must,” she continues, resigned to having a one-sided conversation. It’s better than having no conversation, or at least that’s what she’s choosing to believe. “I keep forgetting this was your home, once.”</p><p>Solas pads closer, steps light. Discontent clings to him like a second skin, muddling his aura with an oppressive, ominous note.</p><p>“I can feel your magic changing,” she says, because it’s true. If she’s being completely honest, the forest is changing too— wild shrubs and creeping vines; it is a grove untended. In Dalish tales, Fen’Harel’s domain is always a reflection of himself, and that, more than anything, is what scares her. </p><p>When Ellana finally turns to look at Solas’s head-on, he’s close. Closer than she expected him to be. Close enough to touch, if she dared. Instead, she squeezes her hand into a fist.</p><p>Solas gazes back at her, more man than wolf, despite current appearances.</p><p>“What are you doing to yourself, ma’salath?”</p><p>He presses his eyes shut, tilts his head away slightly, meekly, and <em> ah</em>. It would seem shame presents the same no matter one’s form.</p><p>Her hand is cradling his jaw before she can think better of it, and he startles but stays put. Another surprise.</p><p>“Let me help you.”</p><p>He leans into her touch, inhales long and deep. When he looks at her again, his gaze is full of grief, and she wants nothing more than to take away that pain. There must be another way to save the elves— something he hasn’t considered, some puzzle piece he has yet to unearth. Together, they could find a way.</p><p>Solas’s throat works around a swallow. He is thrumming with a newer, rawer energy— acidic like the rifts but not quite so wild. From what she can tell, he’s in control, but how long until that changes? How long until this power outpaces him? How long until it twists his spirit into something unrecognizable?</p><p>“Let me help you,” she says again, softly.</p><p>Solas tips his head forward, and she meets him halfway, rests her brow against his. It’s strange, being with him like this, all fur and teeth and unrefined edges, but it makes no difference. She will love him as a man, as a god, as a wolf, and, she realizes with a start, even as a monster, if it comes to that.</p><p>“Just <em> trust </em> me, Solas,” she whispers. </p><p>A mistake. </p><p>He goes rigid, and in the next heartbeat his magic is smothering her, pushing her out, out, out— of the grove, of the Fade, of her own cursed dream.</p><p>She wakes with a start, a sob stealing her breath and a quilt tangled around her legs. The world is cold and dark and empty, and she is alone. Perhaps she has been for a while, but she never truly believed it. Not until now.</p><p>Not until he… he sent her away.</p><p>
  <em> He sent her away. </em>
</p><p>It’s a new type of hurt, and she’s not sure what to do other than cry, so she does. She should’ve expected it, in retrospect. If there’s one thing Fen’Harel excels at, it’s cutting people off when they get too close. Duty before desire, always. </p><p>Ellana draws her knees to her chest and makes herself small, as though that’ll prevent the pain from finding her.</p><p>How could she have been so foolish? How could she have let him do this to her <em> again</em>?</p><p>He is the flame she keeps trying to grasp, somehow expecting not to get burned.</p><p>And it has to stop.</p><p>It has to stop.</p><p> </p><p>**</p><p>
  <em> The sedative is easy to brew: a sprinkle of herbs in a mug of chamomile tea. Anything to empty her mind of wolves and gods and wolf-gods. If she could carve him from her memory entirely, she would. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She wouldn’t. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She might.  </em>
</p><p>It is better this way,<em> she thinks, drifting gently into a dreamless sleep. </em></p><p>
  <em> (It is not.) </em>
</p><p>
  <em> (But at least it is not worse.) </em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong>- 4 - </strong>
</p><p>Ellana is methodically brushing out her hart’s tawny coat when she’s given the news that Solas has started killing those who oppose him. It’s been four months since she last visited the Fade—four months since he rejected her—and the sound of his name no longer stings like a switch. “<em>Mmm</em>,” she hums, disappointed but not exactly surprised. The Dread Wolf wasn’t going to lay low forever.</p><p>“While they dream,” Harding adds, and Ellana drops the comb.</p><p>Presses a quivering hand to her stomach.</p><p>
  <em> While they dream. </em>
</p><p>“What?” she says, breathless, and Harding looks at her with thinly veiled pity. “<em>How?</em>”</p><p>The dwarf shifts her weight around nervously. “We’re not… sure,” she admits.</p><p>“Then how do you know <em> he’s </em> the one doing it?” Ellana snaps. It’s a childish response, and she instantly regrets the ire in her tone. Lace isn’t to blame for any of this. “I’m sorry, I just…”</p><p>Harding offers a sympathetic smile. “There’s more…” she says, hesitating with whatever information she has tucked away.</p><p>Ellana attempts to cross her arms— and is swiftly, harshly reminded she can’t do that anymore. Instead she settles for propping her fist on her hip. “More?” she prods.</p><p>“The intel…” A heavy pause. “It comes from Charter…” </p><p><em> Oh, for— </em> at this rate, the two of them will be here all day. Ellana sighs. “Out with it, Lace.”</p><p>Harding purses her lips and squares her shoulders, like she’s bracing for a hit. “She’s on her way back now, but she says… Charter says she saw him.”</p><p>For one tremendously long moment, Ellana can’t make sense of those words— </p><p>“And she said he wants you to know that he’s sorry.”</p><p>—and then time unsticks itself, ripping a piece of her off along with it. Ellana swallows. Takes a measured breath. Considers screaming but ultimately decides against it. Solas is <em> hunting people in their sleep </em> and he wants her to know he’s <em> sorry </em> ? For what? For murdering innocents? For spending <em> years </em> by her side only to betray everything they fought to protect?</p><p>Or is it for deciding this world and all its people—including everyone he once called friends, including <em> her</em>—are worth sacrificing for the sake of the long-dead Elvhen?</p><p>Creators know he has plenty to be sorry for; the question is which flavor of guilt finally caught up to him?</p><p>Ellana clears her throat, and her voice is perfectly level when she says, “If there’s nothing else…”</p><p>Harding mutters a quick <em> of course </em> before making herself scarce. A small mercy.</p><p>A less-small mercy is that, somehow, impossibly, Ellana remains undisturbed for the rest of the day.</p><p>Into the night.</p><p>Until the candles have danced themselves low and her tired eyes yield to the tender… promise… of… </p><p>.</p><p>. . </p><p>. . . </p><p>. .</p><p>.</p><p>The Fade. </p><p>It crashes around her like a hurricane, roaring greens and savage blues. Beauty so vibrant it burns.</p><p>She hasn’t dreamed this way in months, was specifically taking sedatives to ensure she wouldn’t slip through the Veil on accid— </p><p>Ellana claps a hand over her mouth.</p><p>The sedatives— she forgot to take them. It had just gotten so late, and the herbs she needed were in another room, and… and…</p><p>And she’s in Fen’Harel’s grove, she realizes, turning slowly in place. She’d recognize the woven canopy anywhere, each branch sung into place, each leaf a work of art— greens and golds and reds, all tiled in a lattice-work mosaic. Something’s… off, though. There’s more red in the pattern than normal, arcing in stripes like a gash, like a scar. </p><p>The wrongness hits her then— the subtle perversion of magic hanging in the air. </p><p>Ellana takes a few steps forward, wary. How did she get here? Even when she took the Fadewalking draught, she had to cross into the forest on foot, but now, without any sort of effort, she’s just… here.</p><p>Strange.</p><p>Perhaps it’s a trick.</p><p>Ellana turns, and she almost trips over her own two feet. Solas—or the creature she assumes to be him—is glaring at her from several paces away. He still wears the form of a wolf, but any pretense of him being harmless is gone. Six red eyes. Moon-bright fangs. Shoulders level with the treetops. He’s panting, panting, panting, and a growl catches deep in his throat.</p><p>So this is the Bringer of Nightmares.</p><p>Ellana swallows her fear, tilts her chin up. “Are you going to kill me too?” she asks, defiant, and he flinches as though she’d struck him. Good. Perhaps it was a spiteful thing to say, but it was hardly undeserved.</p><p>He’s quick to recover. Resumes staring at her with a hardened gaze. Sheets of fire hug his sides, and it takes her a moment to realize they’re <em> wings</em>.</p><p>“Charter relayed your message,” she says. </p><p>Something like sorrow flashes across his features, but he remains silent. </p><p>“You summoned me here, didn’t you?”</p><p>Again, more silence. </p><p>She huffs, tipping smoothly over into frustration. “<em>Why</em>, Solas? Was it not enough to banish me before? Now you yank me back? Are you <em> trying </em> to hurt me?”</p><p>He pinches all six eyes closed and crinkles his brow, like he’s casting a particularly sensitive spell. </p><p>“I…” She huffs, wrung out and spent. “I don’t know how to do this with you.”</p><p>It might be a trick of the light, but Ellana could swear he’s not as massive as when she first arrived, and when he looks at her again, his gaze is a cool, icy blue, almost grey. Almost normal. It should come as a relief, but all she can think is, <em> he’s losing himself. </em> </p><p>Is that why he called her here?</p><p>Is she his tether?</p><p>“Please, just— just <em> talk </em> to me,” she begs, voice cracking as she cheats a step closer. “Tell me what you need, help me understand—”</p><p>He pulls back, shying away from her, but she doesn’t let up.</p><p>“I <em> want </em> to understand—” The moment her fingers brush his fur, he fades to nothing. </p><p>Branches spring back into place with a <em> whoosh </em>, filling the space where he stood, but a hollow warmth lingers, fashioned in the shape of his pain. It steals her breath, makes her ache. Solas’s actions are his own, but she can’t help but feel a little at fault. How long had he been trying to reach her? How many times had he sought her comfort? How many opportunities did she miss to sway him from this course?</p><p>It was careless to take those sedatives for so long— she sees that now. And she won’t make that mistake again. </p><p>Ellana slumps against the nearest tree. Feathers her jaw. </p><p><em> He drew me here for a reason, </em> she thinks, clinging fiercely to that knowledge above all else.</p><p>Perhaps it’s not too late.</p><p> </p><p>**</p><p>
  <em> When Charter returns, Ellana is waiting. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “His plans are centered around an idol of some sort,” Charter explains. She pauses to take a swig of liquor, then adds, “Crafted from red lyrium,” and Ellana goes stock still. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> No. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> No, he wouldn’t. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Solas is smart, careful. He more than most knows the dangers of red lyrium— how toxic it is, how rapidly it can spread, how effortlessly it will corrupt everything and everyone near it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Then she recalls the way his magic has changed; the sick-feel of it, like a body hot with fever. </em>
</p><p>Please be wrong,<em> she thinks. </em></p><p>
  <em> Ellana shelves her worry for the moment, looks at Charter, and says, “Tell me more.” </em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong>- 5 -</strong>
</p><p>The choice to take the Fadewalking draught again is an easy one.</p><p>She needs answers, and she can’t wait for chance—or a certain wolf—to pull her to the grove again. If Solas is turning to red lyrium, he must be desperate. Desperate people do reckless things, heartless things. Desperate people ignore the cost of their actions, it if taking them yields success.</p><p>Whatever he’s planning, she’s running out of time to stop him.</p><p>It takes four days to source the ingredients, another two to gather the proper brewing equipment. She doesn’t tell anyone what she’s doing, which is probably foolish, but if Harding or Charter or anyone with half a brain knew her plans, they might try to stop her— and <em> hah. </em> If that isn’t a nice bit of irony.</p><p>Finally, on the seventh day, with everything laid out before her—the lyrium and the copper bowl and the powdered residue of a half-dozen other herbs—Ellana hesitates. If she combines things wrong, she’ll poison herself. If the temperature is off, the mixture could explode. She’s brewed other potions before, but this one is notorious for being volatile. And she can’t afford to make a mistake.</p><p>On a groan, Ellana fishes a gaudy necklace out of her coat pocket and activates it with a whispered curse word. (Dorian’s idea, not hers.) Instantly, the crystal pendant responds, humming with magic as its opalescent glow overtakes her palm.</p><p>“My darling Ellana,” Dorian says, voice rich and soothing. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”</p><p>She considers lying. Considers wearing him down with the small talk he loves so much. In the end, she opts for candor. She respects him too much to cache her intentions beneath pleasantries. “Do you have any experience with Fadewalking draughts?” she asks.</p><p>Dorian makes a disgusted noise. So that’s a yes. “Rancid concoctions,” he says, audibly sneering. “Best used for killing whichever houseplant you favor the least.”</p><p>“Yes, well.”</p><p>There’s a beat of silence as he works out her intentions; then— “Fasta vass, tell me you’re not planning to <em> take </em> one.”</p><p>She shrugs into an empty room. Stares guiltily at the crystal necklace in her palm, its gold chain dangling between her fingers.</p><p>“You’re planning to take one,” he says again, following the words with a long-suffering sigh. For once, she’s relieved he’s not here, if only because it’s saving her from his too-critical gaze.</p><p>“Technically, this will be the second time,” she mutters.</p><p>“The <em> second— </em> ?!” Dorian’s voice goes all muffled, and, if she had to guess, she’d bet it’s because he’s crushing his half of the necklace inside a fist. “You <em> are </em> aware,” he starts again, even-keeled but terse, “that those potions can kill you, yes?”</p><p>“Only if they’re improperly made.” </p><p>Dorian scoffs. To his credit, he doesn’t mockingly repeat her answer. Instead he says, “The Veil is so thin now you can practically trip through it. What use have you for—” He goes quiet, and she can practically <em> hear </em> him connecting the dots. Then, softly: “You’re trying to contact him, aren’t you?”</p><p>She inhales sharply. No point in denying it. “Yes.”</p><p>The crystal rattles with a surge of energy, and Dorian takes several slow breaths. “He’s killing people, Ellana. In <em> dreams</em>. You really expect me to—”</p><p>“—Help me reach him? So that I can talk some sense into him? Yes, I do expect your help with that.”</p><p>“And if Dear Wolfie isn’t in the mood for a chat?”</p><p>She’s considered the possibility. Considered it and dismissed it. Whatever Solas believes, whatever he’s done, he’s not yet beyond listening to reason. He can’t be. Ellana swallows and shakes her head. “I’m not giving up on him, Dorian.”</p><p>Her friend’s silence is more damning than any words he could’ve uttered, and when he next speaks, it’s with padded tenderness. “Ellana, I know you cared for him—”</p><p>Cared.</p><p>Care<em>d</em>.</p><p>“—but m—”</p><p>“Do you have advice for me?” she asks harshly, cutting him off. “Or shall I take my chances brewing this potion based on the scribbled notes of a likely-senile alchemist?”</p><p>Dorian mumbles something in Tevene she can’t parse, and, with a sigh, says, “Have you something to write with?”</p><p>.</p><p>. .</p><p>. . .</p><p>. .</p><p>.</p><p>Ellana makes it to the other side of the Veil alive—and standing in Fen’Harel’s grove, no less—thanks to Dorian’s guidance. She’ll have to properly thank him when she returns.</p><p><em> If </em> she returns.</p><p>The world around her is an aching tangle of magic. Raw and pulsing. Turbulent.</p><p>Ellana glances from side to side, then goes perfectly still, paralyzed by the warmth at her back— too close, too large. “Solas?” she asks, voice small and thin, hardly daring to hope. </p><p>Hot, shaky breaths curl around her ear, followed by a growl.</p><p>She turns, and he’s there, looming over her, a massive beast with six red eyes that burn like angry stars. She refuses to look away. </p><p>After a long moment, the phrase <b> <em>YOU SHOULD NOT BE HERE</em> </b> echoes in her mind, loud as a thunderclap, and he might’ve intended to scare her but all she feels is relief. He’s speaking to her. For the first time in nearly a year, he’s <em> speaking </em> to her. His jaw doesn’t move, and he sounds nothing like himself, but the words came from him. She’s sure of it. </p><p>Ellana swallows around the knot in her throat. “We need to talk.”</p><p>
  <b> <em>THERE IS NOTHING LEFT TO SAY.</em> </b>
</p><p>“You don’t get to decide that.”</p><p>Shadows drip from his fur, infecting the forest around them with an unnatural dark. <b> <em>LEAVE</em></b>, he says, though it falls short of a command. </p><p>“No.”</p><p><b> <em>LEAVE</em></b>, he says again, less gentle this time. His wings flare like breath-fanned embers, painting the grove a terrible orange. </p><p>“What do you want with the idol, Solas?” There’s no point in guarding her knowledge, no point in drawing things out. Charter left their meeting with her life and her mind intact; Solas must’ve known she would tell all upon returning to her allies. “Why are you tampering with red lyrium?”</p><p>His posture falters— proud shoulders rolling in with shame, head dipping as though he’s about to apologize. <b> <em>IT IS… COMPLICATED</em></b><em>, </em> he says, gaze momentarily breaking from hers. </p><p>She wants to hate him. This would be so much easier if she hated him. Instead, her face pinches together with worry, and she takes a small step forward. “Let me help you.”</p><p>
  <b> <em>YOU CANNOT.</em> </b>
</p><p>“You’re saying that because you think I have a line. You think there are things I won’t do to save you.” She lifts her chin, fights off the heat gathering below her eyes. “You’re wrong.”</p><p><b> <em>YOU DO NOT MEAN THAT</em></b><em>, </em> he says, sounding almost horrified.</p><p>Ellana scoffs. “Don’t I? From what I understand, Thedas will live or die by your hand. <em> Yours, </em> Solas. Which means—” The words hook in her throat, slicing deep, and maybe it makes her a traitor but she’s not mad at him, she’s just <em> tired. </em> She clenches her jaw to stop it from quivering. Glares at Solas through slow-falling tears. He has ruined her. He has ruined her, and there’s a vicious part of her that hopes she’s done the same to him. It’s only fair.  “Which means no one else matters.” </p><p>Whatever he’d been expecting her to say, that wasn’t it, and for a moment she glimpses the storm raging behind his mask. Sorrow, devotion, regret, agony— a thousand-thousand years of guilt condensed into one look, and <em> oh. </em>Oh, he hates himself enough for the both of them.</p><p>In another life, perhaps they were happy. Perhaps they spent their days wandering the countryside and their nights tangled up in furs. Perhaps they grew old together. Perhaps they found peace.</p><p>It is a nice thought, at least.</p><p>When she blinks away the daydream, there is nothing left in her but the sad, sour truth. “If I have to choose between saving Thedas and saving you… I choose you, Solas.”  She hangs her head. Closes her eyes. “Creators forgive me, I choose you.”</p><p><b> <em>VHENAN…</em> </b> His magic curls around her, hard-edged and strained, pressing against her waist, her chest, the cradle of her neck. “You deserve better,” he murmurs, and it’s his true voice this time, smooth and somber— and close.</p><p>She tries to turn, but he’s holding her too tight, and—</p><p>Ellana goes still.</p><p>He’s holding her. </p><p>Solas is <em> holding </em> her— one hand anchored to the small of her back, the other at the base of her neck. </p><p>Without pause, she throws her arms around him, clumsy fingers catching on his shoulders, his tunic, his skin— whichever pieces of him she can reach. His body feels different than she remembers. Too warm. Too thin. </p><p>“Ir abelas,” he says softly, and she tucks her face against his throat to muffle a sob. “I did not realize you still…” He takes a slow breath. “I did not realize.”</p><p>Does he really think so little of her? That she would just <em> move on </em> from him? That she even <em> could</em>? She’d yell at him if her voice would cooperate. </p><p>“Forgive me,” he says, lips pressed to her hair. “I have been weak and selfish… and I should have done this a long time ago.”</p><p>Before she can ask what he means, the world shimmers, wrapping her in a melody like a sunset— elven words that ring with grace, with comfort, with languor. They’re making it hard to… to… “Sol…” As her eyes drift shut, she goes limp in his arms, but she does not fall. He does not let her.</p><p>Carefully, Solas lowers her to the ground, and his voice is far away even though his hands are supporting her neck, her waist. The touch feels intimate, which is strange. What business does he have holding her this way? “Ma lothlenas, vhenan,” he says, and an empty dream takes her.</p><p> </p><p>**</p><p>
  <em> When Ellana wakes, she is alone, and it is quiet.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> With a yawn, she rolls onto her back, rubs the sleep from her eyes. Fortunately, it’s still dark out, which means she can take her time getting ready. How peaceful the morning hours are, before the chaos of the day overtakes everything.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> As she sits up, she takes stock of her nightstand: an empty copper mug and the necklace Dorian gifted her. She was speaking to him yesterday about… something. It probably wasn’t important. How could it be, if she can’t remember their conversation? Wait… had she been drinking?  </em>
</p><p><em> She glares at the cup. Peeks over the rim. A shallow layer of something red and syrupy clings to the bottom, but it doesn’t </em> smell <em> like alcohol. </em></p><p>
  <em> Odd. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And a mystery for another time. Right now, she needs to review the latest reports from Harding and Charter. Solas is still out there, and the Dread Wolf must be stopped. No matter the cost. </em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <strong>- &amp;1 - </strong>
</p><p>“The dreams are waking up but his head is full of screams.” </p><p>Ellana glances at her uninvited guest as he paces back-and-forth, back-and-forth at the opposite end of the room, haloed in candlelight and radiating anxiety. The interruption probably should have startled her, but Cole has a way of bypassing all the usual feelings of shock one might experience. Perhaps it’s a spirit thing. Perhaps it’s just a Cole thing.</p><p>“I take it you’re here for a reason,” she says and sets her sheaf of reports flat on the desk. Cole hasn’t visited her in nearly a year— not since Solas took her arm. Ancient elven bastard.</p><p>Cole flexes his hands, pivots to avoid a wall. “He cannot hear their song over the fire in his veins. Burdened, burning, broken, he does not see there is another way.”</p><p>Cautiously, she sets her book down. “Cole—?”</p><p>“Yes,” he says, gaze lighting on hers, “that was what you called me, when I was here.” He stares and stares, watching her with those cool-grey eyes that see too much. Then his expression goes blank, and he’s speaking fast, words frantic and haunted and falling like rain: “He took too much, and now he is less, now he is spoiled. Bitter, betrayed, too big for his skin. He only wanted to heal the hurt—”</p><p>“Cole, what are you talking ab—”</p><p>“No time!” he shouts, apparating in front of her. “He made you forget, but it is not all the way gone.” Lightly, he touches two fingers to her forehead and whispers, “<em>Remember.</em>” </p><p>Instantly, mercilessly, memories rip through her— of Solas, of how she fell in love with him, bit by bit, year by year. A stolen kiss at Haven, his lips soft and hungry against hers. Afternoons spent sprawled on the couch in Skyhold’s rotunda, clever fingers carding through her hair as he read one of his many books. The taut fragileness of his voice that day in Crestwood, after he removed her vallaslin. His mouth pressed tenderly to hers as he destroyed her arm but saved her life. Nights and nights sat within a forest of his own design, staring into shadows shaped like wolves. And last: the bruising impact of elven magic, of words crafted to hide every moment they shared together, everything she felt for him— everything she <em> still </em> feels for him. </p><p>Ellana comes out of it gasping, and her eyes are hot with unshed tears. She stares at Cole, unable to speak.</p><p>“I am sorry,” he says, taking her gently by the wrist. “This is the only way.”</p><p>And then, light swallows them both.</p><p>.</p><p>. .</p><p>. . .</p><p>. .</p><p>.</p><p>When Ellana emerges, she is alone, nestled in a grove of trees and lying flat on her back. </p><p>Above her, a rift is sealing itself closed— with Cole on the other side. Green static crawls over his face as the Veil rushes to repair itself. “You are strong, you can hold the power t—” His voice is cut off, but she finally understands why he found her, where she is.</p><p>She knows this forest.</p><p>She knows this forest as she knows the halls of Skyhold, as she knows each brushstroke in the fresco adorning the rotunda, as she knows the pattern of freckles that decorates Solas’s timeless face. She knows this forest as she knows her lover, because it is an extension of him. Even so, it feels… different this time. Closer. Cole must have brought her here in the flesh. </p><p>She tries to remember what he said back in her quarters, but it’s all a blur. Given her surroundings, she can hazard a guess.</p><p>The Fade ripples menacingly, each thrum like a heartbeat. Every vine, every flower, every tree glows a bright, inky black. Gone are the healthy greens; gone is the aura of protection. This is a realm at dusk, caught in the cold, unforgiving clutches of night.</p><p>Wisps of magic arc around Ellana, sparking and popping violently. </p><p>She turns, and Solas is there, clothed in the same simple tunic he wore every day at Skyhold, hunched like he can’t catch his breath, weight pushing through one leg. He braces himself against the nearest tree, and the bark chars beneath his palm, flakes off in the breeze. Whatever power he carries with him, it is not welcome here.</p><p>“Solas…”</p><p>His face is hard and gaunt, and shadows ring his downturned eyes. The crease between his brows is like a wound. “Vhenan,” he manages, and the word scrapes something on the way out, gets caught on his teeth. </p><p>She runs to him, uncaring of whatever danger lurks in his wake. He’s in pain and— </p><p>“No,” he growls, throwing out his free hand for her to stop, to not come any closer. His entire arm trembles, but she can only focus on the razored black claws where his fingertips should be.</p><p>Ellana freezes, shocked to a halt. Claws. He has <em> claws</em>. And there’s something… primal in his tone, something that makes her wonder how in-control of himself he is at present. </p><p>“Please, vhenan…” he murmurs, voice like shadow dipped in pitch, dark and oily and <em> wrong</em>. “Turn away.” </p><p><em> No, </em> she wants to say, but her lungs have gone still.</p><p>“You should not be here,” he says, sounding panicked.</p><p>Ellana swallows. Cheats a step closer. Forces herself to breathe again, just breathe. “Solas, what’s wrong? Are you hurt? Cole said—”</p><p>“Cole…” A mirthless laugh. A sad, slow shake of his head. He still won’t look at her. Why won’t he look at her? </p><p>“He said you were in trouble,” she finishes.</p><p>“I suppose I am.” His fingers clench against the tree, and another layer of bark crumbles. “I only meant…” He discards the admission, picks up another: “I am… glad to see you one last time.”</p><p>He looks at her then, lyrium-red eyes blazing like twin flames.</p><p>Ellana gasps, claps her hand over her mouth. “Ma sa’lath…” Cautiously, she moves her palm to his cheek, but he angles his head away before she can reach him.</p><p>“Don’t…” Black veins crawl up his neck, across his jaw—little seams that split and pulse with that horrid crimson light. “It is not safe. I’m…” He trails off again, takes a labored breath. Ellana glances at the tree trunk he still holds, at the damage his touch has wrought. The wood is rotten with ash. “It is not safe.”</p><p>She folds her good arm around her waist. Clutches her ribs to keep her hand occupied. Two months. It’s only been two months since she last saw him. Is this why he took her memories? Is this what he didn’t want her to see? “What have you done to yourself…”</p><p>“I had no choice.”</p><p>“There is <em> always </em> a choice.”</p><p>“No,” he says wearily. “There was not.” </p><p><em> Was. </em> </p><p>“She lied to me…” His gaze turns savage—unfocused—and sickly red tendrils ring his frame, flicker like lightning. “It was never about saving the People.” </p><p>“…She?” Ellana asks, but he does not hear her.</p><p>Solas hangs his head, sinks to his knees. “I did not think… did not suspect…” She has only seen him like this once, after they defeated Corypheus, as he gently cradled the shattered pieces of his ancient orb. </p><p>Ellana kneels across from him. “Solas, whatever it is you think you have to do… you don’t.”</p><p>“It is too late—” </p><p>“It’s not.” </p><p>“—for me.”</p><p>Those two words land like a slap, and a chasm opens in her chest. “<em>No,</em>” she rasps, breathless.</p><p>“I cannot interrupt the magic, but I <em> can </em> contain it. Here. Within me.” The resolve in his tone is an ugly thing. “<em>Please</em>, vhenan. You must leave.”</p><p>Magic— power— <em> Cole</em>. Cole said something about this— something about her, something she could do. He was trying to tell her— trying to help. Creators, <em> why </em> can’t she remember? She shakes her head. “There has to be another way.” </p><p>“There is not.” </p><p>“Don’t you <em> dare,</em>” she says, incandescent with rage. He doesn’t get to give up now, not after everything he’s put her through— put them <em> both </em> through. He doesn’t get to martyr himself like this. “Cole seemed to think I could help you. How?”</p><p>He turns away, refusing. Stubborn bastard. “Without the Anchor, you cannot—” He groans, doubling over on himself, and the black veins creep higher. “—cannot channel this breed of magic,” he finishes, meeting her gaze once more. “It will kill you.” </p><p>She understands now, why Cole made her remember. Solas can’t release this toxic build-up of power without someone’s help, and only a lover would be determined—or perhaps senseless—enough to accept the risks. Clever spirit. “Then we’ll die together, I suppose.”  </p><p>“Vhen—”</p><p>“<em>No,</em>” she snaps. “I’m not leaving you.”</p><p>Solas pinches his eyes shut, feathers his jaw. “Why not?” he mutters to himself, strung-out and tired. It’s more of a curse than a question— a listless frustration that he can’t solve this one last puzzle, that he can’t make sense of her motivations, that despite all his planning and positioning and preparation, he is answerless in this moment, here, with her. What a heartbreaking truth, that this Lord of Tricksters cannot fathom a genuine act of love.</p><p>And how fitting.</p><p>Ellana scoots closer, careful not to directly touch him as she settles herself so they’re sitting hip to hip. A shattered idol lays scattered at his side, shards of red lyrium slowly worming their way beneath the blackened soil. “Do you remember what I said that day? By the Eluvian?” She already knows the answer. He has weaponized obscure details too many times for her to accept that his memory is anything less than perfect.</p><p>Solas furrows his brow, but his eyes stay shut. The shadows beneath his skin roll and reach, spreading darkness farther and farther. So little of him has been left untouched by this poison, but perhaps those few, still-whole pieces will be enough. He balls his hands into fists, and blood drips from his palm. His new-grown claws must have cut into his flesh. It’s reassuring, in a way, to know he can still bleed.</p><p>Ellana takes a breath to steel herself, sure in what she must do but terrified all the same. “I still believe in us,” she says, leaning forward until vicious, withering power singes her skin. If she’s going to do this, she might as well make it count. “And I need you to, as well,” she whispers, and before Solas can pull away, she fits her mouth to his.</p><p>Swiftly, magic tears through her, scorching and razing whatever it finds. The power eats, and eats, and eats, and it does not stop, cannot stop. </p><p>When she kisses him, the world tilts red.</p><p>When she kisses him, the Fade calls her home.</p><p> </p><p>**</p><p>
  <em> She had a name, once.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It’s not important anymore.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Existence stretches before her, beside her, around her— a flood of transient emotions seeping through from a different place. They could be hers, but they are not. And she does not care to claim them, unpleasant as they are. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Ellana?” a voice says, but she ignores it, continues meandering through this still-healing forest. So many wounds. So much pain. </em>
</p><p><em> “</em>Ellana,<em>” the voice says again, more sternly, and that catches her attention— a bright ping of determination amongst all the hurt.  </em></p><p>
  <em> She turns, and a bald-headed elf stares back at her. Pale skin, blue-grey eyes. He seems… familiar. “Who are you?” she asks, and a wave of sorrow pours off him. She moves back, eager to distance herself from his anguish. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “My name is Solas,” he says, quickly mastering his emotions until she senses nothing but delicious, alluring calm. She reverses course, edging ever-closer to the elf named Solas. When she is near enough to touch, his lips pull into a relieved smile. “And your name,” he continues, ”is Ellana.” </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thanks for reading!</p><p>come yell with me on <a href="http://cardinalrachelieu.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a> &gt;:]</p></blockquote></div></div>
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